


Heavy

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Everybody’s tired.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s too old to be chasing petty criminals through the rain, but he’s not willing to give up his badge and that’s part of the job, so he’s soaked through with mud by the time he gets home. He’s shivering, sneezing, and probably looks like a mess. To be fair, he always does, and Connor doesn’t say anything more about it than usual. Connor looks pristine, with his soft brown hair damp and slicked across his forehead, his peach skin glistening with moisture, and his brown eyes devoid of any underlying circles. But he walks as slow and stiff as Hank does. Hank thinks of making a joke about water in his joints, but then a raucous sneeze carries the words away.

Hank misses the first three times he tries to slam his key into the front door. Sometimes when he does that, Connor takes it from him, flawlessly executes the motion and gives some quip about Hank drinking too much. This time, Connor patiently waits, like he did through the paperwork at the station and the long drive home. They’ve been chasing the same idiot for a week. Two days ago, Hank said they’d crack a beer when they finally caught the bastard, but now he just wants dinner and bed.

He gets inside, and Connor suggests, “You should have a warm shower, Lieutenant.”

“I should pass out right here,” Hank grumbles, but he knows Connor’s right, because he’s soaked through to the bone and has to change his clothes anyway. Sumo looks up from his spot by the couch, just as weary and useless as his owners are being. Hank wrestles himself out of his jacket, a little surprised that Connor doesn’t strip it off for him, and then marches to the bathroom alone. At the door, he turns, but Connor’s already shuffling into the kitchen, and Hank imagines he’s not getting a shower buddy. Which he should be fine with. There’s barely enough room in his cramped tub for the both of them anyway, and Connor would just be wasting hot water. He doesn’t need it. Hank’s starting to feel like he needs Connor’s company more than he’d care to admit, so he keeps his mouth shut and showers alone. 

He spends it leaning against the wall, head bent, forehead glued to the cool tile. The waterfall wipes off some of the grime and does a bit for his nerves, feels good and pleasant, but doesn’t do as much as one of Connor’s expert massages could. Hank tries not to ask for those. He’s not Connor’s master. Usually, if he waits long enough and grumbles enough, Connor will offer them all on his own. And then Hank will pretend he’s independent and strong and begrudgingly submit without really showing his gratitude. 

Connor didn’t offer anything after the chase besides a share in the paperwork. But he was probably focusing all his processing power on figuring out what he’d make for dinner. He’s been particularly up Hank’s ass on the nutrition front lately. Which Hank kind of hates and also appreciates. He doesn’t want to leave the steamy bathroom, but he gets out and dresses again for the love of Connor’s cooking. 

He meanders into the kitchen in his boxers and Academy hoodie, only to find Connor slumped over the stove like a deflated balloon. Hank actually freezes mid-step, because Connor has better posture than anyone else Hank’s ever met. He’s practically a caricature. He’s burning the rice.

When Hank realizes that, he rushes over to turn the stove off. Connor stands a little straighter and lifts a hand to rub his eyes, muttering, “I’m sorry, Hank. I seem to have misjudged the cook time.”

“No shit.” It looks awful. Connor clearly tried to throw vegetables in, but instead of being evenly cut, they’re jagged and huge. There’s even a whole carrot stuck on the side, unpeeled and everything. Hank’s just about to ask what the hell happened when Connor lets out a noise like a yawn.

He overturns the rice onto a waiting plate, spilling half the contents on the counter in the process. Then he brings it to the table, adds a fork, and pulls out a chair. Hank gravitates to it by sheer force of habit. 

As soon as he sits down, Connor all but slumps onto the floor. He bends over Hank’s lap, folding his arms across Hank’s thighs, and lowers his head. It’s bizarre. A soft whine, and Sumo wanders in to curl up at Connor’s side, as if sensing the sleep-fest and wanting in on the party. It’s adorable and _weird_.

Hank scrubs his hand back through Connor’s hair. It’s smooth and cool—his forehead isn’t burning, like a human fever or android overload. But he looks up through half-lidded eyes like he can barely keep himself awake, when Hank knows damn well that androids don’t sleep. 

“Am I missing something here? You download a new human-simulation program or something?” Because that’d be super weird, but also very Connor. 

Connor murmurs, “My battery’s low. I may have neglected to recharge for... the duration of this case...”

Come to think of it, he hasn’t joined Hank in bed for days. He’s stayed in the living room instead, the yellow glow of his working LED sneaking in under the door of the bedroom. No wonder they managed to find an almost invisible culprit—Connor was working _the whole time._

It irks Hank to think he didn’t notice. Didn’t stop it. He just figured Connor was keeping the distance because of heightened nasal sensors or something, because Hank was neglecting himself too and hasn’t been showering nearly as much as he should. At least he did when they won. “What’re you still doing on then? You should’ve powered down when we got home!”

“Need to take care of you,” Connor practically slurs. And then his eyes close. Hank’s chest clenches. It’s just like Connor to sacrifice his own well being for the fragile humans around him. 

Honestly, Hank could’ve cooked his own rice. He wouldn’t have—he would’ve ordered pizza. But he _could’ve_. And he’d rather wait for a plugged-in Connor to boot up again than watch Connor excel before suddenly go dead like every phone he’s had in the last five years. 

Gently petting Connor’s forehead, Hank orders, “Forget it. Go to sleep. Or... sleep-mode, or whatever. Partner’s orders.”

Connor mumbles, “Yes, Lieutenant,” and closes his eyes, LED going peacefully clear.

Hank carries him to the bedroom, lays him down, and then orders pizza anyway, offering Sumo a slice if he promises not to tattle when Connor inevitably wakes up fully powered in the morning.


End file.
